


Blood, Oaths, and a Little Bit of Madness

by Sanctioned_Chaos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: For this not being too well written, Give it a read, I firmly apologize, I know, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Missing Robb desperately, Not really Jon Snow/Robb Stark, Posted before seeing S6E4, Robb is only mentioned, Shipping this desperately, Slightly dark!Jon, Squint basically, Still meant to be, Was meant to be but.., don't hate me too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6866521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanctioned_Chaos/pseuds/Sanctioned_Chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon's encounter with Ramsay when he marches to Winterfell. Need I say more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood, Oaths, and a Little Bit of Madness

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this because I need Jon meeting Ramsay desperately. Seriously, I would very much like to see just what would occur. This is not beta-read, if you didn't see the tag, so pardon the author for mistakes made. First fic for this fandom, don't go too hard on me guys. Can I get a "Hoorah" from anyone else who really needs Robb back? Because this is me trying to fill the gap left behind in my nonexistent soul that his death brought.

When Jon kills Roose Bolton’s bastard of a son, it’s not as satisfying as he had imagined. When he feels Longclaw plunge into Ramsay’s gut, slicing through him like the slab of meat that he is and coming out on the other side- when Jon sees the expressions of surprise and confusion flit across his face as they both feel the life ebb out of him- he can’t help but feel cheated. 

It’s something he shouldn’t be so bothered about really, the whole damn North(the loyal North, anyways) felt cheated when word of Roose Bolton’s death spread. No one bought the shit Ramsay was selling about poison, but the news had left a bitter taste on everyone’s tongues. The man who’d slain the King in the North deserved less than a quick death. Nevertheless, Jon had made for Winterfell as soon as he’d finished saying his goodbyes to the Watch. Roose Bolton might have been spared from the fury of the North, but as long as Ramsay lived and breathed and went on calling himself “Lord of Winterfell”- as long as a Bolton roamed the halls of his home - Jon refused to let the sins of both the father and son go unpunished. Tormund had insisted on the wildlings and himself going with him, said Jon really did know nothing if he thought he was going to take back Winterfell by himself. Davos had come as well, bringing Lady Melisandre with him, the first claiming vengeance for his king and the latter spouting more stuff about a prophecy. None of them voiced it, but he had a feeling they were tagging along partly because he’d died once already, and he might not be so lucky the next time.

Jon didn’t care, as long as Winterfell was returned to the hands of a Stark before Winter truly arrived, and as long as he got to be the one to drive a sword through a certain Bolton’s gut. 

The battle had started as soon as they had arrived, but none of that had mattered as soon as Jon caught sight of Ramsay. The man’s own gaze had met his soon after that, and, throwing him a mocking grin, he’d jumped on a horse and gestured for Jon to follow. The previous lord commander cut down the nearest enemy soldier on a horse and raced after him. Tormund and the others could handle themselves, and at the time, the only thing on Jon’s mind was the need for vengeance. It was less of a thought and more of a base necessity, a primitive call for blood that reverberated throughout his entire being. No one had stopped the two of them on their way into Winterfell, both looking mad enough to slaughter anyone who would try. Ramsay had led them into the dining hall, empty of everything Jon remembered except for a small chair and table near the hearth. Sparing a look at the array of scattered papers on the desk, Jon deduced Ramsay had claimed the spacious room as a place to deal with matters of the North that concerned him.

Fire blazed at the opposite end of the desolate hall, its own crackling and their heavy breathing echoing off the stone walls of the castle. Another man, one of Ramsay’s soldiers had followed after them, throwing the doors open only to fall from the weight of the beast that had pounced on him from behind, its teeth ripping into his neck. It seemed Ghost had been following them as well. Dimly Jon remembered wondering where he’d gone, losing sight of the direwolf at the start of the battle. Having finished mauling the soldier near the door, Ghost pawed his way over towards Jon, low growls making their way out of his crimson jaws. Ramsay had a look of mad fascination on his face, eyeing the wolf as if he entertained the idea of having it for himself. He’d have an easier time trying to convince Jon that Lady Catelyn had ever cared about him. Ghost would sooner eat week-old poultry than be tamed.

“That’s a fine hound you’ve got there, Snow.”

He didn’t respond, choosing to circle Ramsay as the man matched his footwork step by step. Ghost opted out of doing the same however, seating himself close to the hearth, red eyes watchful. Jon was glad for it. This was something he needed to do by himself. 

“I remember seeing another one just like it, albeit with a darker coat mind you. That one was bigger, too.”

Ramsay stopped, lifting his sword to point at Jon.

“‘Course it didn’t look so big with its head attached to Robb Stark’s pretty neck.”

Ghost howled, Jon lunged, and their duel began.

The clash and clang of their swords rang loudly against Winterfell’s ancient walls. It was a savage fight, not exclusive to swords alone. At one point Ramsay had managed to stab a dagger into his left side (another mark to add on to the ones from the Wall), but Jon got him back when he knocked out four of the lord’s teeth with the hilt of Longclaw. The knife wound had been shallow enough, the actual dagger itself being more of a toothpick, and Ramsay only grinned a bloody grin at the sight of his pearly whites on the stone floor. Of course, Jon had won, his experience as a brother of the Night’s Watch beating any training Ramsay had received. While he was the honorable man his father had raised him to be, Jon still felt some part of him, a not-so-small part, entertain the idea of flaying Ramsay to match House Bolton’s banner. 

He didn’t berate himself for having such notions, no amount of suffering would equate the kind he’d felt when he heard the news of Robb’s death. He didn’t even berate himself when thoughts of burning the world to bring back his brother entered his mind. Frankly, he’d always known exactly what he felt for the heir to Winterfell- that a world where he wasn’t, was a world Jon had no care for living in. He’d been tempted more than once to throw himself onto the nearest blade and meet Robb in death, but he’d made a promise all those years ago. 

They’d made a promise.

Jon remembered that day quite vividly, and not just for the oath they spoke. They’d killed for the first time just hours before. Jon and Robb were on a hunt with their father and a couple of his guards. It was their first hunt and it was supposed to be a simple one. 

Lady Catelyn was away at the time, visiting her father at Riverrun. Arya had dragged Bran to the woods to look for Nymarie who’d run away and Rickon had secretly followed them, not wanting to be left behind. Maester Luwin was supposed to have been watching them but he was preoccupied taking care of an ailing thirteen year-old Theon. Sansa had rode to their father as soon as she realized they were missing, but her ineptitude at riding resulted in her falling off her horse and twisting her ankle as soon as she arrived and tried to dismount. When they found Arya, Bran, and Rickon, the three were surrounded by a large band of wildlings. Lord Eddard and his men had been doing fine handling them on their own when their father took an arrow to the shoulder and another to the thigh. He’d dispatched of the archer soon enough, but he could hardly fight with his wounds and Robb and Jon had found themselves needing to take up arms to protect their family. They’d all suffered injuries that day, barely coming out of the scrap at all. It was only when the wolves found them that the wildlings scurried off, even then they were still big and fierce enough to rip a limb clean off. 

Upon arriving at the castle, Robb and Jon had watched as Maester Luwin patched up father and the guards, treating Sansa’s ankle last as it was the least severe injury. The boys themselves were rather bruised and bleeding in a few places, but they’d hid their wounds upon making the decision that the others needed seeing to first. Jon recalled Robb dragging him away from the room after witnessing the removal of the bolt in their father’s arm. His brother had nicked a salve or two and some bandages before leading the both of them to the Godswood. Jon had known nothing about how to treat a wound, what with Lady Catelyn assigning a multitude of chores for him to do everyday when he wasn’t training with his father, but Robb had been taught by the Maester as part of his lordly education. Now Jon had seen Robb dress an injury before(although, only the small ones mind you) when he could get away with watching and not working that is, and he knew Robb to have the most precise hands in the castle- a statement made by Maester Luwin himself- but when his brother had sat him down by the pond underneath the heart tree and tried to dress Jon’s wounds… Robb had been shaking.

It was one of clearest memories Jon could remember.

He recalled how numb he himself had been to most of it, he’d seen worse injuries in the kitchen, but his brother hadn’t. When lord Eddard had taken them to see their first beheading, Jon remembered Robb looking away. Despite being the heir to Winterfell and knowing all the duties that would come with that, despite all those hours with the Maester learning which wounds needed what salve, Robb had never liked the sight of blood. Specifically the blood of his family. Jon’s mind had been on the wildlings at the time, wondering what they could be doing so far south in such a number, so it had taken him a while to notice the small sobs that wracked his brother’s frame. If Robb hated the sight of blood, Jon hated the sight of Robb crying. His brother had blamed himself for the injuries suffered at the skirmish, more a martyr than even Jon at the time. He kept going on about how maybe if he could handle a sword better father might not have had to try and take out a few more wildlings before collapsing from the strain. 

That was the first time Jon ever punched Robb. 

He’d payed for it later on when Lady Catelyn saw the mark upon her return to the castle a day later, though not as bad as he could have being that she assumed it had been a wildling that did it. She blamed him for not protecting her son better. 

Anyway, after Robb finally calmed down and got both of their wounds treated, the two remained in the Godswood, quiet, as their minds drifted away from the present and into the troubles of the past and possible troubles of the future. It had taken a few solemn moments but, eventually, the brothers got to talking about everything they’d missed in the recent months they were kept from each other, Robb being forced into his training to be the next lord of Winterfell, and Jon dragged into doing whatever miscellaneous task that was asked of him. The only time they ever really got to see the other was during sword practice with Ser Rodrick.

The two had talked for hours after that, staying in the Godswood even after nightfall. Their father would be looking for them soon, but just before they left had been when they swore their oaths to each other. Neither of them ever wanted to see their siblings hurt again, especially not when they could do something about it. It wasn’t an easy task for Robb to convince him that it was okay to call them family, despite his bastard status, but when he had, him and Jon had whispered promises of protection underneath the face of the tree. 

Before all the horror had began, all the suffering, and all the deaths, far into the night with the stars shining unabashedly overhead, and the moon casting the world below in its heavenly light, two boys had pledged to the other a sacred oath under the great heart tree in the Godswood of Winterfell- to protect their family. To live and die, to bleed and draw blood, should it keep Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon safe.

And by all the old gods and the new, Jon Snow would keep his promise.

***

Emerging from within Winterfell, they must have made quite the sight. Ghost’s white fur was drenched in blood, the crimson matching his eyes perfectly, and Jon looked no better. He was splattered in the blood of countless men, the most recent being Ramsay’s own. His disheveled and naturally wild appearance gave off the same aura as that of a conqueror’s. The expression on his face didn’t make him seem any less dangerous. There was something in the way his brown eyes shown, nearly pitch black, as if there was some great beast or terrible madness caged within him, but only temporarily. Those who saw him didn’t know who they feared greater, the direwolf with its hide and maw dripping blood, or the man that strode beside it, with a great long-sword in one hand, and the decapitated head of Ramsay Bolton in the other.

Only Melisandre recognized the thing dwelling in the back of his eyes. It seemed that not only the blood of the Targaryens had been passed down to Jon Snow, but their madness as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, forgive the author for any mistakes she made. Would very much appreciate if ya'll leave behind a nice kudo or comment. Also, this ship is OTP and I plan on writing more stories about them, in case you were wondering. Thanks for reading, even if you didn't like it, you suffered through it anyway, and I think you ought to be commended for that.


End file.
